


There's A Fire Outside Your Door

by pikablob



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Gun Violence, Post-Canon, Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27029824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikablob/pseuds/pikablob
Summary: Orpheus couldn’t give Eurydice her freedom, but he did give her one thing: hope.A revolution in five parts.
Relationships: Eurydice (Hadestown) & Original Character
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	There's A Fire Outside Your Door

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended Songs: [Chant (Reprise)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVyH0sOTths), [The Call Of The Wild (Sisyphus' Theme)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VxzHnjKnYuo), [The Girl They Call Fitzroy (Orphic Theme)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdaGFkDDmo8)

**I.**

The trudge back down to Hadestown is the longest of Eurydice’s life. With every step she feels the bitter sting of disappointment; she cannot bring herself to blame Orpheus, but a growing resentment for Hades and everything his city represents settles in her gut. She never wants to see those blackened streets again. But where else can she go, with the Wall and the guards and the hounds all barring her path?

She feels the eyes of the other workers on her back as she returns to the bunkhouse. She hears the whispers of dismay, her disappointment echoed from woman to woman and man to man. “Of course Hades would never let her go,” they say. “He lied, he rigged it, he had to.” She doesn’t have the heart to correct them.

The bar falls silent when she finally pushes through the door, everyone glancing up at once. A dozen weary faces all meet hers, and she watches as they all reach the same conclusion. The more cynical roll their eyes and look away; the more sympathetic give her sad sighs and concerned glances.

“I knew it,” someone says from the back of the crowd. “There’s no convincing Hades, never was; that boy could have sung for a thousand years and we’d still all be stuck down here.” She looks up, trying to ignore the sting of his words; a greying old man in a tattered jacket meets her gaze. 

His eyes are resigned; she can tell he has long given up hope of anything changing in Hadestown. But the rest of the bar seems less certain, and in an instant a response forces its way up her throat.

“You’re right,” she says sourly, “we can’t convince Hades. Things aren’t going to change unless we do something about it.” If there was silence before, now you could hear a pin drop. But she can’t help the embers burning inside, and she knows there must be hope amongst at least some of the others.

“That’s dangerous talk,” the man challenges, standing. She holds her head up, no longer caring for the consequences.

“So what?” she spits. “It’s dangerous to talk of freedom? That’s exactly what Hades wants.”

“She’s damn right!” someone else cuts in, a woman across the bar. Then another speaks up, and another, until the whole place is nearly in uproar. And Eurydice feels the spark of hope that was nearly extinguished when Orpheus turned around relight inside her; perhaps she still can change the way things are.

It is hours before she finally gets to leave, declining another round of drinks bought from someone else’s meagre paycheck. The old man is waiting for her outside, halfway under the glow of one of the streetlights, and he smiles as he sees her walk out.

There is a look about him of conspiracy, no longer resigned to his fate. He shifts his coat as she passes, and the light glimmers off of cold steel; a large-frame revolver hangs loosely from his ragged belt.

“So,” he says quietly, glancing over his shoulder to check for guards. “You really want to change things, Songbird?”

* * *

**II.**

Her new friend is named Sisyphus, Eurydice quickly learns. He is older than most in Hadestown, made strong by decades of work hauling ore wagons between the mines and the foundry. He is not her only supporter; she gains nearly a dozen on that first night alone; but he quickly becomes one of her most valuable.

Hadestown’s expansion is ceaseless, but was never well-planned. Warehouses and barracks seem to pile on top of each other, spilling further and further towards the rocky walls of the cave they occupy. So there are plenty of nooks and crannies: small abandoned buildings, left over from earlier days, down winding alleys where the streetlights don’t reach.

Sisyphus knows these back-ways far too well. Eurydice holds her meetings there, far from the eyes of Hades’ cruel men and the noses of his fierce hounds. At first few come, sneaking out long after dark, but over weeks her audience grows until the gatherings rival Persephone’s underground concerts.

Sometimes they sing: old work songs, or the song overheard from Orpheus. But mostly they plan, and with so many workers willing to fight it seems no problem cannot be overcome.

When Hades orders the factories’ hand-cranked lathes replaced with electric ones, two of the old ones find their way to the warehouse. When the foundry produces a surplus of iron ingots, more than a few are slipped from the hoppers and brought in. When a new substation is wired in near the Wall, a whole roll of copper is stolen from right under the guards’ noses.

In the darkness of the night their improvised factory churns out weapons. Crude revolvers and rifles, pickaxes and shovels sharpened to blades, and tin-can bombs filled with volatile petrol mixtures. With each passing night the gap in arms narrows between the rebels and the guards; soon they will outgun their enemies as well as outnumber them.

“We need a name,” Sisyphus decides one night, without warning. Murmurs of discussion run through the gathered workers, and as often times before Eurydice feels all eyes turn to her. As leader, she supposes, the right of titling the movement falls upon her. It only takes her a moment before she settles on an idea.

“The Orphics,” she declares; the crowd shifts, some confused, others understanding. Her tone turns wistful as she explains. “After the boy who gave us hope.”

“Surely that would make us the Eurydicites, Songbird,” Sisyphus says dryly. She shakes her head.

“No,” she says firmly. “I’m not the one who started this.” Nobody else protests.

* * *

**III.**

The wheels of revolution threaten to run out of control. The warehouse has become a veritable factory of its own, churning out materiel at an alarming rate, and Eurydice finds herself wondering what she has started. In the brief rest between work and her Orphic meetings she dreams of Orpheus, and wonders if this is what he would want. But it is too late for second thoughts; winter will soon give way to spring, and far too much is in motion for a handful of second thoughts to halt.

“How do we start this?” she finds herself asking one night, pouring over a tattered map of the city. It’s a recent one, but still cartography has failed to keep pace with Hadestown’s growth, and new districts and parts of the Wall have been pencilled onto the paper. Further annotations mark patrols and smuggling routes, guard checkpoints and Orphic caches.

“We could hit the Wall,” one of the workers suggests. “Blow a great hole in the thing. That would do it.” Someone else jeers a “yeah!” in support.

“Too risky,” Sisyphus counters. “They would see us coming a mile off, and then all the people are going to see is their last hope getting gunned down.” Several members of the crowd protest; the room echoes with resentment for Hades’ edifice. Eurydice holds up a hand to silence them.

“We will tear the Wall down,” she promises them. “But that alone won’t cripple Hades’ defences. We need to find a way to hit the rest of the city.”

“What about the power station?” a worker, a woman barely older than her with weary eyes, suggests. “Cut the city’s electricity.”

It makes almost too much sense. Electricity may run through Hadestown’s veins, but its heart still pumps steam; those boilers and turbines, devouring all the coal they can mine, drive everything. Without them, the Electric City will wither and die. And in her months in the darkness she has seen too many industrial accidents to count; she knows what happens when those boilers fail.

“Cut its lifeblood,” she agrees, holding her head up high. “We’ll blow the boilers, cut out this city’s heart. Everything Hades built needs power; without it his whole empire comes crashing down.” She feels determination burning inside her, stronger than ever, all second thoughts banished. “It will be soon; when you see the lights go out, you’ll know it’s time. Arm yourselves, tear down the Wall, and head for Hades.”

“Hell yeah!” the woman cheers. Another whoops in support, and from the back someone else shouts in agreement. Fists pump the air, and bodies jump with revolutionary fervour. In each and every eye Euridyce can see hope, the hope that this city tries so desperately to smother, burning brightly.

“Three cheers for Eurydice, and for the revolution!” They shout in unison, united in fire and purpose.

“You really know how to get ‘em riled up,” Sisyphus says quietly, fondly. “So, can you put your money where your mouth is? Are you ready to start a war, Songbird?” He shifts his coat, bearing his gun again.

“No,” she admits, glancing to make sure the workers are distracted by celebration. She doesn’t want them seeing her doubt. “But I have to.”

* * *

**IV.**

The power station is a monument to Hades’ will. A resolute brick building in the city’s industrial heart, surrounded by narrow, grimy streets and wreathed in smoke from a single massive chimney, clad in stone. Eurydice sees it well before she reaches the gates, looming over the surrounding city, and thick bundles of cables overhead guide her the whole way.

She has not come alone. Sisyphus stands by her side, and between them they carry a generous stock of improvised explosives from the warehouse. A small knife hangs at Eurydice’s side, a gift from one of the workers at the warehouse, though she has no intention to use it; coming completely unarmed would be too big a risk.

They slip between guard patrols in the darkness where the lights don’t reach, finding entry through a long-forgotten maintenance door one of the Orphic workers has left open for them. Inside the whole building thrums with the beat of Hadestown, valves clanking and turbines whirring behind brown stone walls.

Sisyphus leads on, down through dark industrial corridors where heat hangs in the air. Finally they reach the belly of the beast, a huge chamber lit by the furnace-fires of a dozen coal boilers. Stokers and trimmers scurry about, their clothes and faces black with soot, while a foreman bellows at any who seem to slow for even a moment.

The air is thick with smoke and the heat searing, but Eurydice has felt the same in the mines before; she only hesitates a moment before stepping into the room.

“Who the hell are you?” the foreman challenges, lumbering over. His soot-covered brow furrows with anger. Sisyphus answers with hot lead; the crash of the gunshot rolls out across the room, every man and woman turning just in time to see their overlord crumple to the floor.

In their gazes Eurydice finds a mix of emotions: confusion, terror, mistrust, all well-founded. Sisyphus says nothing, stepping aside; she has the stage all to herself. And so she begins to speak, the same embers that have driven her this far carrying her voice over the roar of the furnace-fires and the thrumming of the generators above.

“You’re not slaves anymore,” she begins. “I know how it begins; Hades lied to each and every one of you, promising good work and food and fair wages, when all he had to offer was hard labour in his own hell. Well, I say no more! After tonight, everyone will go free; we’re ending his reign once and for all!”

“You’re serious?” one of the stokers says quietly, disbelief in her voice.

“Absolutely,” she says firmly. “Everyone is ready; we have weapons and we have a plan.” It’s a skeletal plan at best, thrown together over sleepless nights, but she doesn’t admit that. “And it starts with the power grid.” Murmurs run through the crowd.

“You’re Orpheus’ girl,” one of them speaks up, recognition blooming in her eyes.

“What do you need us to do?” another asks, getting a chorus of agreement.

“Shut all the water valves and open the dampers,” Eurydice orders, “then get out of here. Tell everyone upstairs this place is about to blow. They all deserve a chance to escape.” Immediately the whole group springs back to action, taking to their stations one last time amid a frenzy of activity. Her and Sisyphus split, each taking one side.

She doesn’t know the details of the bombs; neither her life above nor her work in the mine ever had her near explosives. But she trusts the workers who made them, and they’ve been over where to put the things several times. She tucks the cans under the boilers, right in the searing heat, until every one she carries is armed and ready.

By the time she has finished the frantic activity has died down. A glance back shows Sisyphus setting the last of his bombs in place, and the rest of the room deserted. Somewhere above, just over the constant sound of the building, she thinks she might hear shouting.

“I nearly got out too, you know?” Sisyphus breaks the silence. She stands up and looks over, not sure where this new conversation has come from. He is still looking down, but his words are clearly to her. “I got as close as you did, once, long time ago.”

“What happened?” she finds herself asking.

“Same as happened to you, and everyone else who tried,” he says dryly, “Hades got his way.”

“Hades was going to let me,” she says sadly, no longer able to bear the lie. He at least deserves to know the truth, she decides. “Persephone persuaded him; he said me and Orpheus could both go back to the surface, if he could walk up without looking back for me. We were almost there when he did.”

Sisyphus laughs. It’s a cold, hollow thing, but it’s the most he has ever given her. “You really think, Songbird, that Hades was going to honour that?” he asks. “Did you ever stop to think, why those terms? Because he knew your boy wouldn’t be able to do it. He gets to keep his prize and keep his wife happy. The game was rigged from the start.”

She doesn’t reply. She isn’t really sure what to say, not after that. It doesn’t really change much, she supposes; Orpheus still failed, and she still doesn’t blame him for it; Hades still lied, and she still hates him for it.

“I want you to have this, Songbird.” She looks up; Sisyphus has stepped away from the boilers, and is holding out his old revolver. She blinks, even as he presses the cold grip into her palm.

“Why?”

“Because you need it more,” he says, deadly serious, as if that explains everything. “It’s all rigged; this place is about to blow, and everything’s going to get a lot more dangerous. I need you to take this, Songbird, and run. Don’t look back until you’re well away from here. I’ll be right behind you.”

Reluctantly her fingers close around the grip, cold and heavy in her hands. She nods, trying to ignore how loud her heartbeat suddenly sounds in her ears; for the first time, everything feels real. She feels like she never understood what they were starting until this moment. With one final look back she starts to run. She doesn’t stop for anything; up the winding stairs, past the abandoned turbine-halls, and out into the street.

Only then does she look back; Sisyphus isn’t behind her. He’s nowhere in sight, and before she even has a chance to think an explosion rips through the night.

Every streetlight goes out at once, robbed of sustenance. The entire power station is consumed by fire and smoke. A pillar of flame reaches the cave roof, far above, and even without power the streets are brighter than they have ever been. All she can hear is the roar of the blast, and slowly it dies down to nothing.

For the first time since Eurydice has been underground, Hadestown is near-silent. The music of industry is gone, the low rumble of the factories and the buzzing of the power lines. There is nothing but the quiet crackle of the power station fire.

Distant thunder shatters her reverie. The shadow of the Wall gives way; looking over, she can see huge chunks falling away above the rooftops. And in the firelight a new song echoes from the streets: the bark of gunfire, the cheers and shouts of fighting, the screams of the wounded. She takes a deep breath, looking down at the revolver in her hands and up at the blazing, ruined edifice. There is no time to mourn; the war has begun, and the revolution needs its leader.

* * *

**V.**

They have reached the gates of Hades’ mansion by the time Eurydice arrives, a sea of furious workers surrounding the building on all sides. They cheer her as she passes, the mob parting to let their leader through. Ahead the palatial building looms; with its gaudy lights dead it looks more like a mausoleum than a home, and a growing sense of dread fills her as she closes the distance.

She passes the wreckage of a once-sleek car, overturned and burned to a rusted skeleton. Behind it, in the shadows cast by the building, she can just make out the twisted corpses of guards gunned down. The carcass of a large dog decorates the front steps, blood staining the marble.

A song rings out over the masses; it’s not beautiful or elegant like the one Orpheus sang, or sweet and sultry like Persephone’s. It’s raw and angry, dozens of voices taunting and cursing Hades’ name in unison to the tune of some old work ballad. A patchwork of instruments provide the tune, and dozens of feet stamp along.

“Where’s Hades?” she demands over the din, trying to keep her focus in the moment.

“Still inside,” someone, a middle-aged woman hefting a stolen rifle, yells.

“The bastard’s hiding away!” another, a man in dirty mining clothes, jeers. The sentiment is echoed by a dozen others, several wishing grievous harm upon their former ruler in their taunts.

“And we’re still waiting out here?” Eurydice asks. She looks over the crowd; they’re baying for blood, but nobody has yet crossed the line into Hades’ domain.

“We’re waiting for you,” the first revolutionary says firmly. “This whole thing was your idea. You gave us everything we needed; you should be the one to put the poor bastard down. That’s why you’ve come here, ain’t it?”

Eurydice suddenly feels sick to her stomach. She looks down at the large, worn revolver in her hands, not sure when they started shaking. She wonders if this is what Sisyphus meant when he told her she would need it, that things were going to get dangerous. She knows this isn’t what Orpheus would want her to do, to march in there with intent to kill.

But she can’t deny Hades deserves it, and the revolution will have blood one way or another. She knows there is only one way this ends. They are all looking up to her, waiting for her word to launch the final attack, and, with a heavy sigh that she hopes they do not see, she steps towards the fallen gates.

“Let’s end this,” she says darkly, stepping into the dead garden. A small group follow her, lighting her path with mining lamps and burning torches. It’s not a bloody rush but a steady, cautious approach. It seems her apprehension bleeds into her allies, even as two go ahead and batter down the door.

Beyond is the atrium, still as hideously opulent as the only other time Eurydice has been here. The paintings are still in their frames, thick carpet still unstained, the chandelier powerless but still hanging. It’s strange, stepping into a world untouched by the grime of Hadestown or the fires of revolution outside, and Eurydice can’t help shivering as a chill comes over her.

From the shadow of the grand staircase, a woman steps into view. Eurydice recognises her immediately, despite the simple nightclothes clinging to her form and the tangled mess of hair falling down behind her. Even in these circumstances, Eurydice thinks, there is something beautiful about Persephone.

Two of the workers behind her raise their guns. Eurydice raises a hand to stop them, even as Persephone flinches back.

“Don’t shoot,” Eurydice orders, stepping between the woman and the guns of her allies.

“Why the hell not?” one of the workers demands. “She’s Hades’ wife, ain’t she?” Uncomfortable glances run between the revolutionaries, their gun-barrels halfway up. “Always singing about how great things are above while we’re still stuck down here.” Eurydice grits her teeth; she knows Persephone was trapped too, in her way, and she does not deserve this fate.

“She’s the only reason I’m standing here,” Eurydice says firmly, turning to face the others. “She’s the one who convinced Hades to give me and Orpheus a chance, to not have him executed there and then. Without her there would be no Orphics; she is not our enemy.”

Her words feel empty inside, but still their weight holds back a tide. Reluctantly the workers lower their rifles and pistols, their trust in her not yet broken, and she silently breathes a sigh of relief. Turning back to Persephone, her gaze meets eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Thank you,” the woman whispers, arms clutched around herself. “My husband is still upstairs, in his study.” Eurydice nods, trying to bury the storm inside.

“Go,” she says quietly. “Get out of this place.” She turns back to the group, raising her voice to be heard across the lawn. “Let her pass; let everyone know she’s not to be hurt!” Nods run through them, all in reluctant agreement, and as Persephone slinks away the mob outside parts a narrow channel for her to slip through.

Eurydice’s heart beats louder with each step up the hideously large staircase. The gun in her hands shakes, but each time she glances back she sees the workers following, relying on her, and she steels herself on. Finally she finds herself at the study door, her heart pounding in her ears, and with one final glance she pushes through the door.

“So, it’s finally come to this.” Hades’ voice, deep and rumbling, makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on-end. He is sitting behind his desk, lit by the orange glow of the power station burning in the distance, and despite it all there is still a smile on his face. “Everything I’ve built, destroyed; the foundry, the power grid, the Wall. Tell me, Songbird; under what righteous pretence have you justified this atrocity?”

“The people of Hadestown deserve to choose their own fates,” she retorts, unable to stop cold fury from rising up her throat, “to come and go as they please. To have enough to eat and drink and a place to sleep without being worked within an inch of their life. To not be lied to every step of the way by a man who only wants to squeeze them dry.” All she can think of are the lies, the false promises, the hoarding of food and resources while everyone on the surface is forced to scrounge and everyone below is forced to slave.

Her companions murmur in assent, but she can see they all still have their guns lowered. Despite everything Hades’ aura remains, that strange mix of charisma and threat that has made him untouchable for so long. He must have a plan, Eurydice thinks; he must have a back route to his train, or guard reinforcements hidden away somewhere, or something. The idea they’ve caught him like this seems too perfect.

“You make a fine point, Songbird,” he says softly. “Why don’t you go ahead and prove it?” There it is. He doesn’t think she can kill him; maybe he thinks if she won’t, neither will the others. Maybe he thinks if she refuses, they’ll turn on her. The swiftness of the uprising must have scuppered any better plan. But he has already made a mistake.

Eurydice has never been a killer, and she never will be again. But in that moment, the challenge itself is enough to tip her over the edge. Maybe it’s right, maybe it’s wrong; maybe it’s not how Orpheus would have wanted the movement he started to end. But the gun Sisyphus thrust upon her speaks its answer: fire, lead, and death. In an instant the war for Hadestown is over, and the King in the Mine has lost.

**Author's Note:**

> There's now art to go with this fic thanks to [Stellesappho](https://stellesappho.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!!
> 
> Also this:


End file.
